


"Find Max."

by Spurius



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Billy can't find Max so Neil looks for her, Gen, I have only a vague sense of US society in the eighties, Neil Hargrove Being an Asshole, Neil is an unreliable narrator, Seasons 2 and 3 from Neil's perspective!, Two Hargroves on the loose!, and I don’t read maps of Hawkins well, or of cars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2020-12-28 10:50:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21135506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spurius/pseuds/Spurius
Summary: 'Neil waited a few moments, but Billy’s nose continued to bleed. Taking one hand off the wheel, he rooted around in the pocket of his own jacket. He almost had to lift himself out of the seat to get at it, but he finally pulled out the handkerchief he kept there. Without taking his eyes off the road, he held it out to Billy.“Here. And lean your head back for Christ’s sake.”For a second, Billy didn’t react. The square fabric, off-white and blue, hung uselessly in Neil’s hand. He didn’t know what he would do if Billy continued to refuse it.Another beat passed. Then Billy reached out and took it without a word.'Neil gets impatient waiting for Billy to find Max at the end of Season 2. He heads out himself to search for her. At Joyce Byers' house, he finds Billy passed out on the floor. It's going to be a long night.





	1. “Find Max”

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This story is narrated almost entirely from Neil's POV, and he's a bit (cough cough) unreliable. 
> 
> Please be warned that, given who the two main characters are, this story contains descriptions of domestic violence and child abuse. There are also several references to an incident of marital rape. Individual warnings are posted at the beginning of each chapter.

Several hours had passed since Billy had driven off to look for his sister and it was now way past any acceptable time for a 13-year-old girl to still be roaming about in the streets, even in this town. The heavy, corporeal heat of the midwestern summer hung over the house, and Neil’s aching eyes slid from the Hawkins Post to his wife. She was, he noted in disbelief, adding fresh detergent to a dishwasher that still needed to be emptied of clean dishes. He raised his eyebrows. Doing so was Maxine’s job and should have been completed earlier today. The only sign that she had started were four fresh plates stacked on the dining table for tonight’s meal.

His stepdaughter had been neglecting her chores lately, he reflected, folding the newspaper. Since they’d moved, Susan’s daughter had been spending more time out of the house, running around with random kids from her new school, some of them boys. One of them was Ted Wheeler’s, Neil had observed. Ted was an important client at the bank, judging by the fuss that was made over him. But Neil didn’t have the first idea who Maxine’s other friends were. They could be anybody’s. He had told Billy to keep an eye on his sister, but instead his son whined daily about Maxine being late meeting him after school. It embarrassed him how much of a cry-baby Billy was — had been as long as he could think. Neil hadn’t been like that, and he wouldn’t have dared to piss and moan about his responsibilities to his parents that way. Nor had he raised his son to be like that, either. And now Billy’s behavior was rubbing off on his sister, whom Neil had had to warn more than once in recent weeks not to mouth off to her mother. Because Susan would never do it herself. She was a pushover if ever he had met one. He rubbed at his eyes. God, he was so tired.

He was dimly aware of Susan watching him warily from the other side of their combined kitchen-dining room area. He resented her tendency to hover. She had earlier warmed him up some leftovers for dinner, though refused to have any herself. Now his stomach felt uncomfortably tight. He slid a finger between his waistband and his hip, futilely attempting to loosen the fabric. It was pointless. He knew what she wanted, knew himself that it was what he had to do. But Jesus he didn’t wish to go back out in that stifling heat, get back in his truck. It had been a three hours’ drive to Sears, for Heaven’s sake. All for a hairdryer that, he was sure, they could have bought at Melvald’s. He could feel a familiar, bitter anger percolate into his chest — anger at Maxine, who wouldn’t stay put when she was told to, at Susan, who wouldn’t control her own child, and, most of all, at Billy, who was God knows where, who couldn’t follow the simplest rules, the simplest directions. ‘Find Max’: how hard was it? Neil had raised a waste of space. He hated the pitying, knowing looks his co-workers gave him when they realized that THAT was Neil Hargrove’s son; the endless string of letters from school listing failed classes, fights, and detentions; and the uncomfortable phone calls from his son’s exasperated teachers, always interrupting dinner time... “Mr. Hargrove, I am calling again about Billy – we spoke the other day?”— as if it could possibly be about something else; as if having Billy was something that Neil could ever forget about, as if Billy hadn’t been his responsibility and his alone from day one...

“Neil...?’ Susan interrupted quietly. With a sigh, he grabbed his blue work jacket, put it on over his clammy shirt, and looked around for his car keys.


	2. The Camaro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another short one. I am still getting used to this. Warnings for descriptions of child abuse, including graphic violence. Oh, and it explores a section of the recently published "Runaway Max" from Neil's perspective. "Runaway Max" author, please don't sue me!

His Sierra was where he had parked it, but Billy’s Camaro was gone from its usual spot at the far side of the driveway. For a moment, Neil thought back to getting the car for Billy with money he had saved up over several years. Neil had bought an older model that he had fixed up himself. The disbelief on his son’s face when his father had taken him out into their shabby driveway to show him his car had been so blatant that Neil had almost felt insulted. Hadn’t he always provided for Billy? Hadn’t Billy had everything he needed? Neil had handed him the keys, they had opened up the hood and admired the interior, and he had warned Billy to not be an idiot. Then he had watched his son drive away excitedly with a vague, pleasant sense of having done something right.

A few weeks later, the tickets had started to arrive. Neil had been furious. Actually, he reflected as he now climbed into his own car and turned the key in the ignition, he had really lost it that day. Billy couldn’t go to school for several days after, while Neil contemplated selling the car. In the end, it hadn’t seemed practical. He supposed a muscle car was an open invitation to get into trouble to a teenager like Billy. But Billy needed it to get to wherever it was he now spent his time. Also, Neil was fond of the Z28. Sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, when his family was still asleep and the roads were deserted, he took it out for a spin. He would take the spare set of keys he had kept for himself, adjust the seat backwards - because Billy was still smaller than him - and put his hands on the unfamiliar wheel. The car smelled of his son. Leather, cigarettes, and the damned man perfumes he was using even though Neil told him not to. Sometimes he dug around the glove compartment for one of the Marlboros Billy thought he didn’t know about. Hell, he might even have gotten a ticket or two himself while letting the car go on the freeway. But that was different. Neil was an adult and a good driver. His son was neither.

Billy’s own speeding had stopped as long as Billy’s ass had remembered what the consequences had been. But then it had started again. The last time a ticket had arrived in the mail had been back in California. Neil had stared at it in utter disbelief and so angry that all he could hear was his own blood rushing through his ears. The car had been a gift. It meant — something. And Billy was throwing it all back in his face. When he confronted Billy with the ticket in their small kitchen, rushing at him, his son had backed away and cowered in a corner, genuine fear in his eyes. But it had to be done. Neil had broken one of Susan’s teapots in the process of trying to teach Billy the same lesson over and over again. With some embarrassment, he remembered Susan’s daughter having been in the kitchen for the whole time. She had stared at his hands holding the belt as if she had never seen a father discipline his child before. And he supposed she probably really hadn’t, from all he knew about Susan’s ex. He had not spoken to either of his children after, leaving Billy on his hands and knees to lick his wounds by himself. It was all a lot of fuss over a damn car.


	3. The Wheelers' House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for one incident of homophobic language. Not endorsed by me obviously.
> 
> Edited quite significantly on 29 Oct. because I wasn't happy with it yet. Obsessive much? ;)

The streets were empty and quiet, and all but the most central traffic lights had been deactivated for the night. Compared to San Diego, Hawkins was minuscule, and yet, Neil realized as he crossed Melvald Boulevard and worked his way from one traffic light to the next towards the network of residential streets in the northern part of the town, he was still not entirely familiar with its layout. 

Before he had left, Susan had frantically looked up the Wheelers' address in her notepad by the phone –- the only one of Maxine’s friends’ she had, apart from an utterly useless reference in Billy’s illegible scrawl to “Claudia, Dustin’s mom.” Neither of them remembered who Dustin was. Neil was working all hours at the bank, picking up as many night shifts as he could because they paid marginally more. So at the end of a long day, or coming home bleary-eyed early in the morning, he was too tired to listen to Maxine chatter about her new friends. Susan usually paid more attention when it came to her daughter, but she had been busy settling them into the new house while looking for a part-time job in town. 

It occurred to him that Billy would know who Dustin was and where he lived. Since their move, his son had mostly been responsible for driving his sister around and keeping an eye on her. But Billy never volunteered any information about their day. During mealtimes, he kept up a sullen silence unless directly addressed or to ask for gas money out of his father’s wallet. His rude behavior irritated Neil. He had always needed a strong hand — as any real boy should — but in the past he had shown at least some respect and gratitude. Neil even remembered them talking at meals. Or had this been before his wife had left? Neil had few memories of that time and preferred to forget the rest. 

Since the Wheelers were as good a guess as the next, Neil was checking there first. Not that he felt comfortable doing so. Ted Wheeler was a friend of his boss’s and he did not want it known that his children were so out of control that he was out in the middle of the night corralling them. Whatever slim chance at a promotion he had in his dead-end job –- and, Jesus, did they need the cash -- depended on being seen as responsible. He and Billy had talked about this. The move had been supposed to help, giving them a fresh start. But Billy was already sabotaging that. Again. And Neil had heard enough lunchtime jokes from his colleagues about "California hippies, liberals, and queers" to last him a lifetime. All he needed now was for Maxine to act up as well.

The wide, leafy expanse of Maple Street came into view. Not wanting to pull into Ted Wheeler’s driveway at this time of night, Neil left his truck behind a blue Mercedes parked on the curb. He crossed the Wheelers’ manicured lawn, looking at the house for signs of life. Only a small reading lamp in what must be the family room was still on. It looked inviting, and, not for the first time this evening, he longed to be back in his own home, watching the news, or a game, or whatever inane thing happened to be on. His wristwatch told him that it was almost midnight. He swore quietly. Could Maxine really still be here? Would people like the Wheelers even allow that? He certainly would not.  
He pressed the doorbell. 

It took a moment until there was movement in the house. Then Ted Wheeler was peering at him through the curtain in the door with a dazed, confused look. He was wearing a woolen cardigan over a white polo shirt, and, Neil noted disapprovingly, a pair of flannel pajama pants. From inside the house, a woman’s voice called “Ted? Who is it? Mike? –- is that you?” 

Drinking a much-needed cup of coffee in the Wheelers’ large kitchen, Neil learnt, to his relief, that their kid had gone missing, too. Mike was supposed to have come home hours ago. His father seemed to think this was normal behavior. Neil was rapidly losing respect for the man. Having placed several unanswered calls to the Byers’ house, his wife, Karen, wanted to call the police. Neil knew that, by now, Susan was thinking to do the same, but she would wait for her husband’s return before doing any such thing. 

Karen Wheeler interrupted his thoughts. 

“You do know, Mr. Hargrove, that your son already came by looking for Maxine a few hours ago? I told him everybody was over at Joyce’s house.” 

“Excuse me?” He leant slightly forward in surprise.

“Your son, Billy. He was here earlier, asking for Maxine. The kids often meet in our basement. Just not tonight. So –- he had a cookie and then he headed over to Joyce’s.” 

Now Neil was seriously concerned. Whether it was at Billy being here, in this house, talking to Karen Wheeler (“he had a cookie?” what was that supposed to mean?), or because multiple hours must have passed since he had left, Neil was not sure. From what Karen Wheeler said, the Byers’ residence was at the other end of town. But even that was no more than a fifteen-minute drive away. At Billy’s speed, probably no more than ten. He and Maxine should have been home a long time ago. Not for the first time that night, Neil rubbed at his jaw in one fluid, beleaguered gesture. He looked at Karen Wheeler: 

“Someone had better head out there now.” 

Ted Wheeler had already retreated back into his chair in front of the TV, but his wife stopped Neil by the door as he was leaving. 

“Mr. Hargrove, you don’t think anything happened to the kids, do you? I told your son to drive carefully. Joyce’s driveway is very dark at this time of night. He promised me.”

Neil snorted inwardly. Promises from Billy didn’t mean much. But Karen continued:

“He seems like such a nice boy, so concerned for his sister, and Maxine is always so polite, too –- I really wish mine were more like that. You must be so proud of them both.” 

Neil blinked. Was she laughing at his expense? Breathing in sharply, he raised his eyebrows, daring her to say more. Yet she only looked at him expectantly, seeming utterly sincere. And too much time had passed now for him to anything in response.

After the door had closed behind him, Neil re-crossed the lawn, unlocked his truck, and sat in it for a minute longer than strictly necessary before starting it up again. It was only a short drive to Joyce Byers’ house and he was not sure what he would find there.


	4. The Byers’ Driveway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for graphic descriptions of child abuse, domestic violence and rape (implied). I mean it. Warning for Neil being a complete dick. Warning for Neil never actually reaching the Byers' residence. (He will get there, I promise). 
> 
> Apologies for this being so short. It only made sense this way. Oh, and I also edited chapter 3 because it didn't work quite yet. 
> 
> Feedback makes me happy! :)

On the way across town, Neil’s right hand began to hurt from gripping the steering wheel too tightly. Or perhaps it was from when he had struck Billy earlier? Holding the wheel with his other hand, he slowly flexed his right, curling his fingers. That only made it sting even more. Goddammit. 

Neil looked briefly out of the side window of his truck, watching the dimly lit shop windows pass by, then the library, the courthouse. 

It took a lot more these days to get his son to listen. Billy radiated resistance and… resentment. Even with his back against the wall, he now frequently refused to admit defeat. So, tonight, Neil had slapped him as hard as he could to remind him who was in charge. 

Admittedly, the sudden impact had made Billy’s head snap to the side just a little more than Neil had intended. So much so that Susan had gasped audibly in the background. This had displeased him. His wife usually knew to stay out of business that was strictly between him and his son. 

In any case, no harm had been done. Neil had caught Billy’s face. Grabbed him by his chin and held him where he wanted him, in a practiced pitching grip. 

One time, back in California, Neil remembered now, he had held Billy’s chin just like this, frantically checking his jaw for injuries after a particularly hard fall at practice. Or had he grabbed it to get him to stop crying already? He was no longer sure. Billy had always cried too easily. Neil could not figure out why.

Back in Billy’s room, Neil had watched his son’s cheek flush an angry pink while his eyes, hooded, unreadable, tracked his father’s. Neil had raised one finger up to him in a warning gesture. 

What. Did we. Talk about?

For a few seconds, they had stared at each other, breathing parallel, hard breaths. Neil had seen, with some satisfaction, that Billy had been holding back tears. Finally, Billy, looking mutinous, had said the words that Neil needed to hear. Respect. And Responsibility. And he had apologized to Susan. 

Still, under his jacket, Billy had had his shirt gaping open again, and the earring that Neil hated more than anything had swung insolently. With that earring Neil’s mind had suddenly flashed back to Billy’s mother, his first wife. Unbidden memories of the fight that had destroyed their marriage: she, wearing her high-waisted, tight jeans like a deliberate provocation, her long, blonde hair framing her delicate face; he, in his old flannel shirt, feeling defeated, empty, knowing that he had lost her. 

What a temper she had had. Yelled, thrown plates, lied, talked back. Stood up to him. At first it had been exciting. But that night Neil had wanted to strangle her. Push her to the floor. Remind her that she was, as far as he was concerned, still his wife, and he her husband. Pulling at those jeans. 

A troubling thought had struck him: Had Billy been home for this, too? 

He had brushed it away. None of this had been his fault. She had left him, and he had never asked for this, wanted this -- this life, this responsibility. With renewed anger, he had turned back on his son, wanting to hit Billy again, hit him harder. Billy's irresponsible behavior had to stop: The defiance and the backtalk, especially in front of Susan; the disrespect; the speeding; the whoring and the drinking and the lying, and God knows what else: it all needed to stop. He just needed Billy to listen.

He had realized then that he was shouting. 

"Isn't that right?" 

Billy had been pressed all the way against the shelf now, his expression no longer masking his fear. 

"Yes sir." 

Neil's own jaw had tightened. It still wasn't enough. It still wasn't right. 

"I am sorry. I couldn’t hear you."

He had watched his son hesitate for a fraction. Calculating. 

"Yes. Sir!" 

Something in Neil had quieted then. The rage retreating from his throat into his chest, his belly, his gut, where it had settled, and sat. 

This was right. This was how things should be between a father and his son. In a family. 

He had stepped back, but not without giving Billy one last, warning look. Billy had better find Max. 

Neil's hands were still gripping the steering wheel. The pain, still there, made him gradually more conscious of where he was. He had come to an automatic stop in front of a long, muddy driveway. The intense darkness almost swallowed the shabby house at the end of it, its front porch visible only by his GMC's headlights. He had reached the Byers’ residence.


	5. Drawn-Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for -- Smoking? Swearing? And shameless procrastination by the main character. Who is still a dick.

Apart from a single light casting shadows on the front porch, the Byers' house lay in darkness. As Neil slowly rolled his truck towards it, he saw that the driveway, too, was empty. There were recent tire tracks, as if someone had left in a hurry. But Billy’s Z28 was nowhere to be seen. Was it lying in a ditch somewhere with Billy and Maxine still trapped inside? He tried to stifle his rising unease. 

He would have to call the cops after all. He pictured Susan’s face as he announced that he could not find her daughter. He knew that she would attempt to hide her disappointment under a reassuring smile. That would make him feel even worse. Then there would be the officer’s silent judgment of the many ways in which Neil had failed. As a father. As a man. He would be told not to let it happen again. No Sir. At some point, Billy would stumble into the door reeking of beer, piss, and insolence. Neil would let Susan handle Maxine when she came back from God knows where. And tell Billy to wait in his room. Would it ever end? 

It was still warm, and the trees surrounding the house rocked back and forth slowly in the wind. Everything looked so different here. He missed home. And he hated this place and its constant smell of – cow. He watched the trees for a while, leaning against his vehicle, drawing out the inevitable. If only he had a cigarette, something to hold. But the habit had never stuck. It was Billy’s mother who had smoked. Marlboros; always. A bizarre choice of brand for a woman, and he had hated that smell, too. 

The first time he had caught Billy with them, a few years after she had left them, the old repulsion had welled up in him immediately. The kid had still been young then – 12? 13? – and Neil had not wanted him to start smoking. Especially not Marlboros. 

It had been one of the rare times, in those days, that his son had defied him. 

“Give them to me, Billy.” 

Retreating deeper into his room, Billy had hid the red-and-white packet behind his back as if it were his most prized possession. He had had a peculiar, bolshie look on his face. 

Neil had sighed. He didn’t have time for this. 

“Now!” 

He saw Billy shrink from his voice. Taking a few quick steps towards his son, he had held out his hand imperiously. But instead of relenting, Billy had held his ground, his face contorted with indignation. And then he had started yelling, his voice high-pitched with hysteria: 

“No! They are mine! I bought them!”

Neil had tried to take them from him then. This would end. Right. Now. 

Billy had held on to the pack. But Neil was stronger. He had grabbed Billy’s arm, and, with his other hand, yanked at the stupid packet until he had it. Its contents had spilled out on the floor. Some of the cigarettes had ripped apart, breaking up and flaking all over, filling Billy’s room with a pungent smell they both immediately knew. 

A rare, awkward silence hung between them. Then Billy had burst into tears. No. Sobs. And Neil, stricken, had stood there like an idiot with the torn packet of Marlboros still in his hands. Just, helpless. Finally, he had taken a step towards Billy. His son had not seen his mother in three years. Goddammit. 

He had touched Billy’s shoulder. 

Billy had flinched. 

Shit. 

Something in him had recognized then the extent to which he had messed up. That they would never recover from it. He had wanted, needed to say something. But he had come up empty. By then, Billy’s face had been absolutely covered in tears and snot. 

Neil had sighed. Turned to leave. “Clean up this mess, Billy. And clean up your face, for God’s sake.” 

The ruined packet had ended up in the garbage. But he had never tried to take Marlboros from Billy again. He had closed both eyes. And the habit had stuck. His house, Billy’s car, his son’s clothes, it all reeked of his ex-wife. And he hated the smell of those fucking cigarettes. 

There was nothing left to do here. Neil pushed himself away from the reassuring support of his truck. 

Yet instead of getting back in it, he continued to peer into the darkness, scrutinizing the Byers’ house. How much time was Maxine spending here, at this run-down shithole in the middle of nowhere? And who was this… Joyce? 

He could at least check this out for Susan before he left. 

As he walked towards the house, he saw that the porch was littered in old, white furniture. He glanced to the right, towards the front door. It was slightly ajar. 

Shit.


	6. The Nosebleed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry, this one took me a while. Not sure where I wanted to take it. Apparently to a really dark place. But you probably saw that coming. Thank you for following and commenting -- it means a lot to me: YOU ROCK (to the sound of really bad 80s tunes/Steve's music)! 
> 
> Warnings for drug use (implied). Warnings for Neil beating on Billy and things getting pretty rough.

The Byers’ front door led straight into the living room just like at his house. Involuntarily, Neil wiped his shoes on the mat before entering. He hated dirt. Then he stopped in his tracks. Right in front of him, someone was lying on the floor, blocking his path. It was very dark inside, but he immediately knew that it was Billy. Even in this light, he could make out his son’s features and the red shirt Billy had been wearing earlier. It was almost completely unbuttoned. 

Jesus Christ. 

Neil fumbled around for a light switch, his heart hammering in his ears. Finally, one came on. He crouched on the floor next to Billy, who was flat out on his back, his head lolled to one side, his mouth slightly open. Was he drunk? High? It wouldn’t be the first time. Neil thought back to their worst days in California, when he had felt that things – no, that Billy was slipping out of his control. When nothing he said or did seemed to get through to his son. Was it happening again? He thought they were past this. Not too gently, he seized Billy’s right shoulder and shook it. 

“Billy. Come on.” 

No response. 

Christ. 

Leaning in closer, tilting Billy’s chin so that he could see better, Neil noticed that there were fresh bruises on his face and that his nose had been bleeding. Billy had gotten into a fight. Again. And someone had landed a proper punch on his face. Neil felt offended, somehow. He checked Billy for further injuries. His knuckles were bruised and bloody, and there was more dried blood on his shirt and on the floor. Sighing, Neil took in the general chaos of the surroundings. There were strange, random bits of paper all over the floor and underneath Billy’s head. Further down the hallway, he spotted pieces of a broken plate. Now he realized what was under the soles of his shoes. Yet there were no cuts on Billy that he could see. When he looked again to make sure, he saw the syringe. 

It was an ordinary, clear plastic thing, with a yellow plunger. Neil picked it up gingerly from the floor. This was new. Billy got drunk and Billy smoked dope and maybe Billy had even done cocaine, but Billy didn’t do this. At least as far as Neil knew. What else did he not know about? 

He shook Billy again, a little more carefully this time. Still no signs of life.

Neil stood up rapidly, realizing that he needed to get help. Right now. 

Joyce Byers’ phone was already in his hand when Billy made a small sound. 

Neil turned around, and stood bent over for a moment, his hands resting on his knees with relief and exhaustion. Looking at his son. 

Billy still seemed only semi-conscious. Whatever was in his system had done a real number on him. But Neil didn’t care. His mood had changed. He strode towards Billy and stood over him, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“It’s good to have you back.”

Suddenly awake, Billy stared at Neil, his brows furrowed as his brain tried to process the alarming news of his father’s arrival. Under different circumstances, it would have been funny. 

Neil raised his own eyebrows at him. “So what happened here, Billy?” 

Billy opened his mouth. And closed it. Searching for an answer, an explanation, an excuse, like Neil had seen him do a million times. All the while struggling to sit up. Neil didn’t feel like helping. 

“I’m not going to ask you again. What happened? Where is Maxine?”

“Dad. Shit. I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know?” 

“No. I mean. She was here. But then she…left.”

Billy was looking up at him helplessly, holding his forehead as if it hurt. Neil was getting frustrated. None of this made any fucking sense.

“Where’s your car, Billy?” 

“What?” 

Billy had the audacity to look confused. 

Neil had seen enough. Grabbing his son roughly by the upper arm, he pulled him into a standing position and began dragging him towards the door. Billy stumbled beside him, struggling to get to his feet. Neil. Did. Not. Care. They were back in the Byers’ driveway and he heard himself shouting, beside himself:

“WHERE is your car, Billy? Where? Do you see it anywhere? Have you lost THAT, too? How stupid are you?” 

With each question he was pushing at Billy’s shoulder, trying to get an answer out of him. But Billy just continued to stare at the driveway; he seemed stunned, dumbstruck. Finally, he opened his mouth. 

“It was here, dad, I swear. They must have taken it. She must have…” He fumbled around in his jeans pocket. “Shit. That little bitch took my keys, dad, she stole my keys!” 

Neil felt himself go cold all over. 

“What “little bitch”?” Who are you talking about?”

A look of fear crossed Billy’s face. He took a step back. Away from his father. 

“No. I mean. She. Max. She was here with her friends. They took my keys. Fuck. I’m sorry, dad.”

The rest of Neil's self-control was slipping away from him. This was too much. He was done with tonight. 

He took a step forward and grabbed Billy by the arm again. For a second, and for the second time tonight, they stared at each other. Then Neil hit Billy in the face. Once. Twice. Again. Billy, panicking, tried to move out of his reach, edging towards the truck parked behind them. But Neil walked after him. He had had enough. 

“So your sister took your keys, huh?” Slap. 

“The “little bitch”?” 

Slap. 

“Is that what you call her now? Is that what you call ‘respect’?” 

“No. Stop.” 

Billy looked done in. His shirt was hanging off him and he was holding up one arm to protect himself. He was backed all the way against the side of the Sierra now. Neil halted for a moment, resting his aching hand. 

They eyed each other warily.

“I didn’t mean to call her that, dad. She…” 

Neil felt his jaw tense. This would not do. 

“Dad, I’m sorry. Please.” 

Billy had stopped trying to get away. His nose had started to bleed again. Neil wasn't sure if he was crying or if his eyes were just watering from the pain. 

He hit Billy one more time, for good measure. But he was running out of steam. And he could hardly have it out with Billy outside someone else’s house. This would have to wait. 

“You will be sorry. When we get home. Now get in the car.” 

Neil walked around his truck and yanked hard at the driver’s door. He knew that Billy would do as he was told. Anger was still pulsating through him like something alien that had taken possession. They would find Maxine, and Billy’s goddam car, if it took him all night.


	7. “372 PCE”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me an age! But I hope it was worth it. Thank you for still being here (if you are)! I live for your comments!!! :) 
> 
> This chapter was partly inspired by looking at photos of Will Chase (who plays Neil) from a few years back and realizing what a great casting choice he was also in terms of his resemblance to Dacre, particularly when he was younger. I also used his current age (38) as an indicator of how old Neil might have been when he had Billy. So, yes, I made it all up. ;) 
> 
> No particular warnings here, I think, except for Neil being Neil.

Neil had slammed the pickup’s door shut, jammed his keys into the ignition, and reversed out of the unlit driveway with Billy hanging on to the passenger seat for dear life. While forcing the truck up the steep incline, back to the road and towards town, his anger at his son, his inability to control Billy, had him shaking with rage. Now, the dashboard clock showed that it was past midnight. Through his side window, as if by radio transmission, he could hear the faint stridulations of crickets over the steady rumble of the truck’s engine. He took a deep breath. He needed to calm down, find Maxine, get them all home. Sleep. All else was for tomorrow. 

For a while now, Billy hadn’t moved. Earlier, he had quietly put on his leather jacket, which Neil had tossed at him after finding it in the driveway. But now he was leaning motionlessly against the GMC’s passenger door. It was strange to see his son’s solid frame hunched over in this pathetic way. Neil had always been proud of how athletic Billy was. Even if they’d had to give up on Baseball in the end — and God knows he’d tried. This wasn’t normal. If anything, Billy had too much energy, not too little. He felt the urge to grab his son’s shoulder and demand what the hell had been in that syringe. But he knew he wouldn’t get an answer out of Billy. Not now, so soon after their fight. He’d have to turn Billy’s room upside down tomorrow to find out. He wouldn’t lose his kid to drugs. 

With an impatient rub over his chin, Neil tried to focus his attention back to the road. For a while, there was only what little oncoming traffic there was at this hour, the low glow of the speedometer in the dark, and the occasional squeak of protest from the bench seat whenever he shifted his weight or switched gears. 

Then, all of a sudden, there was a movement. Billy had sat up and was awkwardly pressing the knitted cuff of his jacket to his face.

Shit. 

Neil waited a few moments, but Billy’s nose continued to bleed. Taking one hand off the wheel, he rooted around in the pocket of his own jacket. He almost had to lift himself out of the seat to get at it, but he finally pulled out the handkerchief he kept there. Without taking his eyes off the road, he held it out to Billy. 

“Here. And lean your head back for Christ’s sake.” 

For a second, Billy didn’t react. The square fabric, off-white and blue, hung uselessly in Neil’s hand. He didn’t know what he would do if Billy continued to refuse it. 

Another beat passed. Then Billy reached out and took it without a word.

Shaking his head, Neil turned his attention back to driving. Billy leant back against the passenger door, and tilted his head. 

They were almost back in the center of town now. Neil had no idea where to go next. And Billy’s silence had started to get to him. God, the kid could sulk. What did he have to be so damn sullen about? A silly nosebleed from getting a slap? Neil’s own father would have thrashed him half to death if he had behaved like Billy had tonight. Billy had never met William Hargrove. Neil had made sure of that — hadn’t wanted his old man anywhere near his son. And he had promised himself that he would never be like his dad. These days, of course, he sometimes found himself wondering if he had judged his father too harshly. It all felt like a long time ago. He’d only been 21 when Billy had been born. Only four years older than Billy was now. A kid. Irresponsible. He had had to grow up quickly, he supposed. 

He looked over to his son again. Billy’s eyes were closed now, and his face, still resting against the door, showed signs of imminent bruising. It would be worse tomorrow. Feeling a vague regret, Neil couldn’t stand the silence anymore. He needed Billy to talk to him. 

“Jesus, Billy. Stop pouting. Man up. What did you expect me to do? Hm?” 

No response. Neil began to feel really irritated. 

“You were supposed to find your sister, and what do you do? Huh? You get into a fight, get your ass kicked, and pass out like a — ”

Billy had sat up abruptly. He was looking directly at Neil now. His light blue eyes could be unnerving when he was angry. Just like his father’s. Neil, in fact, knew that, underneath the hair and the clothes he hated, Billy looked a lot like him. Neil's hair been lighter in his youth, and, like Billy, he had had an effortless charm. Still had it if he needed to. 

Billy’s hand holding the handkerchief had dropped. His nosebleed had stopped. His raised eyebrow indicated utter incredulity at Neil’s words. Neil knew this look well. It ran in the Hargrove family. He ignored it. 

“…your car is gone, you give no explanation, you have no excuse, but you mouth off to me as you always do, and you disrespect your sister…”

From his right, Billy’s voice suddenly exploded into his ear like he knew it would. Billy had even leant forward aggressively. 

“She’s NOT my sister, dad. And Harrington wasn’t kicking my ass. I was beating him! Then Max….”

Billy had interrupted himself. Neil saw a parking spot outside Melvald’s and pulled into it. He parked the car carefully, turned off the engine, and engaged the manual break. Then he turned towards Billy and said, calmly:

“Who is Harrington?”

There was a long pause. Billy was a terrible liar when cornered. Neil’s jaws tightened with impatience.

“I said. Who’s…” 

“Steve Harrington. He’s nobody. I think he and Max took my car. None of this was my fault!”

Billy was on the defensive again. It gave Neil pause. The name Harrington sounded familiar from somewhere. This whole thing raised his alarm bells. He gave Billy a long look and filed Steve Harrington away for another conversation. 

Billy spoke again, doubtless in an effort to distract his father. 

“Those shitheads better not crash it.”

Neil silently agreed. He didn’t care what Susan wanted. There would be hell to pay for Maxine if the Camaro was damaged. 

“So where do you think they went?” 

Billy looked up sharply, surprised at being asked his opinion. Staring ahead, he thought for a moment. Neil watched him study the outline of the GMC’s raised logo on the glovebox in front of him. The silver letters — "SierraGrande" — had lost some of their original shine over the years from when Neil had first bought this car. When it had still been the three of them. 

Finally Billy raised his head. He had made up his mind. 

“I don’t know, dad. But there was something weird going on in that place. It was covered in…papers. Weird shit. I’m worried about Max.” 

Neil was never more surprised in his life. 

“You’re worried. About Maxine.” 

Now Billy looked annoyed again. 

“No. Fuck. Sorry. I dunno. I just know that — something isn’t right.

“You’re going to have to be more precise than that, Billy.” 

Billy was getting more and more agitated. He looked like he already regretted saying anything to Neil. 

“Look, dad. That’s all I know. I think Max might be in trouble. Real trouble. She’s thirteen years old. Aren’t you guys supposed to look after her or something?” 

Neil had heard enough. This was just more of Billy’s nonsense. Probably to distract from what he still had coming. 

“Are you telling me what my job is in this family, Billy?”

“No. I wasn’t… I just —”

“‘No’ what?” 

Billy’s lips tightened. He looked resigned. 

“No. Sir.” 

“That’s right.” 

Neil turned forward on the bench again. He looked out of the side window while they sat in silence, watching the main drag. As he did so, a dark blue Camaro slowly appeared in his peripheral vision, passing the spot where they were parked, and continued, in no great hurry, down the main street. It had a distinct shape, with a slightly lowered back and elongated hood, and an air of quiet menace. Its Californian number plate read “PCE 235.” In any case, there was only one Z28 in this godforsaken shithole. Both Neil and Billy stared after it. Then Neil, eyebrows raised as high as they would go and swearing under his breath, released the manual break and started the ignition of the truck.


	8. PCE 235

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one fought me. A lot. But I have the next one kind of sketched out in my head. So hopefully not too long! Thank you so much for your patronage. :)

“PCE 235”

The bright, square headlights of Neil’s Sierra pointed directly onto the Camaro’s roof as he pursued the other car through Hawkins. Yet even with their help he could not make out who was inside. Was it that High School kid who had managed to land a punch on Billy earlier? And did he have Maxine with him? 

He stepped on the gas, accelerating his truck for a closer look. It roared satisfyingly as he did so. This Steve Harrington had some nerve, driving a stolen car around town with a 13-year old girl in the back. The Harringtons would be lucky if Neil didn’t call the cops.

He turned towards his son.

“Is that Harrington driving your car?” 

“Uhm –” Billy leant forward to see better, but the GMC’s bulky console prevented him from getting much closer to the window. “I’m not —“

“What the —!” 

They had passed under a street light and Neil had spotted a huge dent on the right side of the Camaro where it must have crashed into something. It was the first time he had ever seen the Z28 seriously damaged since he had given it to Billy. He was surprised at how much the big ugly bruise on the car’s sleek side bothered him.

Billy had clearly seen the dent, too. His body had gone rigid with tension. 

Neil let a few seconds pass. He willed himself to stay calm. But the longer he waited, the more indignation rose in him: 

“So let me get this straight, Billy. I work overtime for months so that I can afford to buy you a nice ride. Because it’s what a good father does. And then you, instead of being fucking grateful for once in your life, get wasted and drive it into a wall. Is that about right?”

Now Billy looked panic stricken. 

“That’s not — That wasn’t me, dad! That shithead Steve…”

Neil nodded slowly as if he was actually considering that possibility. He kept driving, his eyes on the Camaro in front of them. The damage was not as visible in the dark, but he knew exactly where it was. Finally he asked, in what he personally thought was a very restrained tone: 

“If you don’t learn to take responsibility for your actions, Billy, I am going to have to take your car to the dealership and sell it.”

There was a stunned silence. Neil had long ago figured out that the Camaro was his son’s weakest spot. He didn’t have to use it often. But he was furious at seeing the car in this state and he wouldn’t tolerate being lied to about it. 

Billy stared down at his hands. When he looked up again, he spoke slowly, his eyes on the windshield and on the Z28 still rolling along slowly. He sounded resigned.

“I was going to look for Max, but on the way there I met — some of the guys from the team. They were going to a house party. I didn’t stay though! I just had one drink. But then, at the Byers’ driveway, there was this big pole. I didn’t see it. It was dark. I’m sorry, dad.”

Neil continued to drive, not saying anything. At least Billy had finally coughed up the truth. 

After looking out of the side window for a while, Billy turned back towards his father.

“You weren’t serious about selling the car, right?”

Neil didn’t reply.

“Dad?” 

“We’ll talk about this later.” 

“Look, I’m really sorry…”

Neil gave him a warning look.

***

When the driver of the Camaro suddenly pulled over to the side of the road to get Neil off his ass they all barely avoided a collision. Neil gripped the steering wheel tightly as the Sierra’s bed fishtailed, his sore hands burning from the friction. When he came to a stop, he turned towards Billy. He looked, Neil thought, as if he was going to be sick. 

“Stay here. I’ll deal with this. And don’t hurl all over the seat like a baby!”

He walked towards the Z28 and, when he reached her, he put a possessive hand on her roof. He kneeled down to look at her damaged flank. Then he walked over to the driver’s window:

“Get out of my son’s car. Now.” 

There was no response. Irritated, Neil leant down further. 

Goddammit. 

The Chief of Police. In Billy’s car. Which he had just tailgated and run off the road. 

Without a word, Jim Hopper carefully lifted his big body out of the low, tight driver’s seat of Billy’s car. It was not built for someone of his height and stature. Neil closed his eyes, willing himself to stay calm, and stepped back slowly. What the hell was the Chief doing here? His heart was beating loudly in his chest. He had never met Hopper personally. Just knew of him and that he, too, had served in Vietnam. But they weren’t familiar. This wasn’t good.

“This is a misunderstanding, Chief. I thought — This is my son’s car! It was stolen earlier…”

Hopper hadn’t said anything yet. He was just looking at Neil appraisingly, in that unnerving way that cops do. And Neil hated having to explain himself. Always had. 

In the backseat, he caught a glimpse of Maxine’s red hair. For a moment, he forgot about Hopper.

“Maxine!” 

She seemed to freeze in place. Then she quickly leant forward to make eye contact with him.

“Yes?” 

“Get in the truck. Now. Your mother is worried sick.”

She moved to get out of the passenger side, clutching her backpack, but Hopper raised his arm as if to stop her and then leant into the car window to talk to her.

“Hang on a minute. Max: This your stepdad?”

She nodded. Hopper turned back around to appraise Neil some more. Finally a smile of some kind appeared on his face. 

“It’s good to meet you, Mr. Hargrove. I know your daughter Max and have run into your son once or twice in town.”

Neil scowled. Hopper carried on regardless. 

“You say this is your car and that it was stolen tonight?” 

Neil breathed out. He was going to have to explain everything twice to that damn cop. 

“That’s right. Well, it’s my son’s. He thinks it was a kid from his school — Steve Harrington? They had a fight earlier? 

Neil knew that none of this made any sense. The Chief was shaking his head. 

“That’s actually not quite what happened, Mr. Hargrove. Steve couldn’t have driven after tonight. Your son gave him a pretty bad pummeling at Joyce Byers’ house.”

Neil felt himself go cold. 

“No. That, ah, can’t be. In fact, Harrington assaulted my son. I found him unconscious on the Byers’ floor earlier.

Hopper gave him as strange look. Then he spoke, rather slowly. 

“Mr. Hargrove, listen to me. Steve Harrington was hospitalized. Billy broke his cheekbone. And Steve almost lost an eye from a plate that your son smashed over his head. You’ll be lucky if the Harringtons won’t press charges. 

Neil looked at the ground for a moment, then in the direction of the GMC, where Billy was still waiting inside. 

Then again at the ground. 

“Hospitalized. Might lose an eye. Might press charges.” He thought of the dried blood on Billy’s knuckles, the shards of broken china on their floor. 

Not this again. 

Hopper cleared his throat. 

“Mr. Hargrove? Where’s your son now? I’d like to speak to him.”


	9. Hopper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Usual warnings still apply: *** Main character still repugnant! ***
> 
> Warnings for Neil v. Hopper. (I enjoyed writing this one).
> 
> Thank you for reading & commenting: you are awesome!
> 
> PS Will Max, Billy, and Neil ever make it home again? Or sleep? Stay tuned!  
PPS I am my own bet(t)a.

Neil had told Maxine to go sit in the truck with Billy. She slowly trudged in the direction of the Sierra. He watched Hopper watch her go. Then the Chief turned towards him. 

“Max did nothing wrong, Mr. Hargrove. She’s a good kid.”

Neil said nothing in response. He wouldn’t acknowledge a cop’s attempt to meddle in his family life. 

Hopper continued. 

“But you’ll have to bring — William, is it?” — Neil nodded glumly —“you are going to have to bring him in tomorrow about the assault. 9:00 AM work for you? 

Neil nodded again. Then he turned to leave. There was nothing more to say. But Hopper wasn’t done. 

“Mr. Hargrove? I’m afraid I’m going to have to issue you a ticket for reckless driving. You’re lucky you didn’t kill us just now with that. Can I see your driver’s license, please?” 

Neil stared at Hopper, struggling to ignore the anger bubbling up in his stomach. He slowly reached into his back pocket for his wallet, took out his license, and handed it over. Then he watched the Chief methodically fill in a blank ticket and tear it out of a notepad before handing it to him. After a moment’s hesitation, Neil took it, his eyebrows raised in disbelief at the fine as he did so. But Hopper seemed undeterred.

“One more thing, Mr. Hargrove. Could your son drive me back to the station before he takes his car home? I need a ride.”

Neil didn’t like that idea at all. But he could hardly tell Hopper no. 

***

As he was walking back towards the Sierra, it took all of Neil’s strength not to rip up Hopper’s ticket and throw it on the ground in frustration. Since when was it forbidden to try and stop someone from stealing one’s car? Was he supposed to just watch the Camaro drive away? It’s not like he had rammed the fucker. 

He yanked open the truck’s heavy door without warning. Billy and Maxine looked like they had been arguing — again — but they fell silent as soon as they caught sight of him. He was struck by how similar they looked when angry, and wondered, briefly, how that could be possible. Mostly, he felt completely out of patience with both of them.

“Billy.” 

“Yes?”

“You are going to drive the Chief back to the station now. Then you come straight home, do you hear me?” 

His son just nodded in reply and seemed in a hurry to get out of the truck. Sitting down behind the wheel and looking into the Sierra’s large side mirror, Neil watched Billy head towards the Chief, who was leaning against the side of the Camaro.

Billy’s face had looked even worse just now than before, Neil reflected. He hoped that Hopper would put the bruises down to the fight between Billy and the other kid at the Byers’ house. But even if the Chief suspected otherwise, so what? Billy was a handful and this was America, not fucking Sweden. In Neil’s experience, cops had no problem with his parenting. If anything, his son, not he, tended to attract the attention of law enforcement. Hawkins was a small town and Billy just could not stay out of trouble if he tried. 

Over by the Camaro, Billy and Hopper were talking and Billy seemed to have already managed to piss off the Chief. Hopper appeared exasperated and even turned in Neil’s direction once as if to ask him to teach his son some manners. Neil swore quietly under his breath. Was Billy humiliating him on purpose or was he really just that stupid?

Continuing to observe the scene through the mirror, Neil was never more surprised than when he saw the Chief suddenly give Billy a friendly pat on the back. Billy must have apologized for his behavior. Well, that was a first. Now Hopper was steering him towards the Camaro’s passenger seat. The sight of the cop’s hand on his son’s shoulder filled Neil with a strange resentment. The feeling deepened as he watched Hopper reverse Billy’s car carefully back onto the road. When the Camaro had entirely disappeared from his view, he turned towards Maxine. 

***

“William? You’re Max’s brother, right?” 

Hopper held out his big, calloused hand. Billy stared at it suspiciously for a moment before taking it. He didn’t trust cops. They didn’t like him much, either. And the heavy-set Chief looked like the worst kind — the kind that Neil got on really well with. 

He replied, more petulantly than he’d intended and keeping his gaze somewhat to the left of Hopper’s face: “Billy. And Max is my stepsister.” 

Hopper frowned and turned from Billy in one rapid, irritated motion. With his hands on his hips, he stared off into the distance to where Neil’s Sierra still sat waiting. Billy was watching him warily. Fear crept into his gut. What if the Chief went over to his dad to complain about his attitude? Shit. How had he fucked this up already? What was wrong with him?

He agonized for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Was it better to leave the Chief alone or should he apologize?

“Sir?,” he eventually said, in a tone he hoped signaled respect. “My father says to give you a ride back to the station?”

Hopper turned his heavy frame slowly back towards him, letting out a deep sigh of disappointment. It made Billy cringe. 

“Your dad do this to you, son?”


	10. “Home Sweet Home”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This became...a thing. But it's the longest chapter yet. Thanks for sticking with me! 
> 
> Warnings: As you can tell from the title, and since this story involves Billy and Neil, this chapter is not about cute Easter bunnies. Shame, really! :( Please exercise caution. 
> 
> Also: I know how Mötley Crüe is spelled, just... Neil doesn't. It's a joke, OK!

It was getting light when Neil pulled the GMC into the driveway of 5280 Old Cherry St. He was used to coming home at this hour from nightshifts, but now his eyelids were heavy with exhaustion and the calls of the early morning birds seemed unnaturally amplified. 

He went around the truck and opened the passenger door for Maxine. She started to climb down, ignoring him completely. Already out of patience with her after the drive, he grabbed her by the upper arm, half-dragging her from the bench seat. Too tall to be lifted out of the truck, she stumbled onto the pavement, but didn’t protest. 

Susan came out of the house as soon as she saw them. She looked tired and was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. When she reached the pickup, she called Maxine’s name and pulled her into a close embrace. Embarrassed, Neil hastily shepherded them into the house, away from the neighbors. The people in this hick town loved to gossip.

Standing in the middle of the living room, he slowly took off his jacket while Susan continued to fuss over Maxine, checking her for injuries: 

“Max, I was so worried. Where were you? Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“Mooom. Stop.” 

“…you were gone when we got home and now you are covered in bruises, and mud, and — what is this — ?”

Maxine pulled out of her mother’s grasp, whining about something or other. Neil was getting annoyed.

“She’s fine, Susan. You’re being ridiculous. If she’s hurting, she has only herself to blame.”

His wife turned around and stared at him with an angry frown on her face. He was taken aback. Unlike Billy’s mother, Susan never criticized him. And he wouldn’t allow for that to start now. He turned towards Maxine: 

“Go to your room. Now. You’re grounded. And tell your little friends I don’t want to see any of them here anymore. They're a bad influence.”

Maxine’s eyes widened, then gradually filled with contempt:

“Screw you!”

For a moment, nobody moved or said anything. From Billy he would not tolerate this. But with Maxine he needed to be more careful. 

“What did you say?” He slowly pushed off the armchair and took a step towards her. She stayed put, her stout legs firmly planted on the living room carpet. 

“Neil. Please.”

Susan looked anxiously from her husband to her daughter. Then, before Neil could do anything, Maxine turned on her heels and stalked off to her room, slamming the door closed. 

***

A little later he sat at their dining table drinking from a mug of coffee that his wife had made for him. The stack of plates from the night before was gone.

Something brushed against his arm. He flinched.

Susan. 

“Neil? Oh my God! What happened?”

He followed her eyes to his right-hand palm. It was bright pink, as if sunburnt. He tentatively rubbed the thumb of his other hand against the base of his fingers, hissing in irritation at the pain. 

“Nothing. It’s fine. You should rest for a few hours.”

She hesitated, still staring at his inflamed skin.

“Is Billy —?” 

“He’s — he’ll be here in a moment. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.” 

Her lips moved, but she didn’t ask him anything else. Back in the kitchen, he heard her open and close a drawer. 

When she came back, she held out something in her tiny hand. Two extra-strength Tylenol, lying side by side. He eyed them suspiciously.

***

When they had moved to Hawkins, Neil had given Billy his own house key. It had come with warnings attached. Billy had ignored them. But Neil had let him keep the key because he needed him to look after Maxine: the same as with the goddam car. 

Now he listened tiredly to the familiar sound of his son letting himself into the back door. 

“Dad?”

Billy stepped into the kitchen.

Neil spoke over his shoulder without a greeting.

“Nice of you to drop by. What were you two doing out there, going on a date?”

Billy’ expression stayed carefully neutral. The light from the bright green table lamp made his face look even worse. 

Neil pulled out a chair for him. Billy sat and stretched out his legs with a groan, his eyelids half-lowered. The house was quiet. 

“What did the Chief want from you, Billy?”

“Nothing. Test-drive the Camaro some more, I guess, the old fuck.” 

Neil rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“Is that right?” 

An uncomfortable silence fell. Billy picked up the blue and white coffee mug that was still sitting on the table and turned it slowly in his hands. It was Neil’s: No one else in the house used it. A souvenir from Buffalo’s Memorial Stadium, it had a baseball player on it, swinging his bat. Susan had bought it for him when they had visited relatives in New York State two years ago. It had been their only real family vacation together. The kids had loved it, particularly the day and a half they had spent in New York City before flying home. Billy still wore those ludicrously expensive jeans that Susan and Max had somehow persuaded Neil to fork out for. It had been easy to be generous that day.

Neil abruptly leant forward and snatched the mug from Billy in one rough motion. He took a sip of the coffee that was still left at the bottom. It had gone cold and left a nasty, grimy aftertaste. 

Billy was finally paying attention, sitting up straighter and watching him warily. 

“So he didn’t ask you what happened at the Byers’ house.” 

Billy shook his head slowly. 

“What about that kid you landed in the hospital? Hm? Because he wants to see you later today and he is going to ask you about that.” 

There was a pause. 

“Harrington’s at the hospital?”

“It seems so. His parents are going to sue us, Billy. Do you know what that means?” 

Billy shifted almost imperceptibly in his chair. Neil slowly leant back in his and crossed his arms. Observing. 

“Does Hopper know you have a record in California?” 

Billy ran his hand through his hair, harried. “How the hell would I know?”

Neil gave him a warning look. 

“Look, dad, what the fuck do you want me to say? He didn’t ask me about any of that, OK? He wanted to know about who’s on the basketball team and…one of the tapes in the car. Turns out the Chief’s a headbanger. Into Motley Crew.”

An involuntary grin had crept onto Billy’s face. He clearly found himself very amusing. Neil stood up suddenly and walked around the table to where his son sat.

“OK. That’s it, William. Get up. Come on.” 

Billy didn’t move. He seemed indifferent, apathetic. 

“I said: get up. We’re done here.”

Billy stood up slowly. 

***

After giving it a skeptical look, Neil sat down on the unmade bed, leaving Billy standing at the other end of the room. Neither of them said anything.

He looked around and sighed. The room was a mess. It smelled of cigarettes, unwashed clothes, and a cloying scent he recognized as his son’s hairspray. Billy’s belongings were lying around everywhere. Shoes on the floor. Dismantled dumbbells. Cassette tapes and records (so “Mötley Crüe” was a group? Or was that the title of their album? He really didn’t give a damn but felt a lingering sense of irritation). 

Shifting his weight to the left, he opened his son’s bedside drawer and peered inside, paying no heed to the noise of protest coming from Billy. He pushed aside two familiar Playboy magazines and started to rifle idly through the rest of the drawer’s contents. His fingers went systematically over various items, dismissing some and giving others a closer feel. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. When Billy was younger, it had been stolen matchbox cars and bits of Neil’s spare change from the Sierra’s ashtray; later, notes from the school, spray cans, and, then, the switchblade that Billy had held to some shit-scared kid’s neck at the beach. That had been a bad day. 

Perhaps he was just hoping to find something. Anything. His fingers continued to roam through the drawer until they came upon an unfamiliar object. Closing them around it, he slowly turned his body back towards Billy, giving him a long, cold look. 

Billy hadn’t moved, but he was watching nervously what Neil was doing, his lips pressed tightly against each other. Neil was about to pull what he had found out of the drawer when Billy spoke: 

“Hopper asked me what started the fight."

Neil let go off the drawer and turned his full attention to Billy. 

Billy licked his lips. 

"I told him it was because I was worried about Max being there alone with Harrington. The Chief says he'll talk to his parents.” 

Neil was stunned. 

“The Chief. Talk to the Harringtons. For you. And why would he do that, Billy? 

Billy shrugged. 

A terrible suspicion came over Neil. He stared at his son for a moment. Then he got up from the bed and took a few steps towards Billy, who immediately walked backwards until he hit the shelf holding the stereo. An empty cassette case clattered to the floor. Neither of them said anything in the silence that followed. Finally Neil spoke again. “What else did he and you talk about, hm? Did he ask you anything about us? About our family?” 

Billy shook his head slowly, but his eyes refused to meet Neil’s. Neil took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. “Listen to me, son. When the Chief asks you more questions later, I’ll do the talking. You understand?”

Billy didn’t reply. Neil raised a warning finger to his face. “You are not talking to that cop anymore. About anything. Am I making myself clear?”

More silence from Billy. Neil was running out of patience.

Without another word, he moved in on his son, seizing Billy by the upper arm. Billy didn’t resist as Neil dragged him across the room, just tried brace his fall with his hands when his father shoved him roughly onto the bed. Neil grabbed hold of his arms and held them behind his back. Then he put his knees on Billy's lower back to hold him down.

“You are not talking about this family’s private business to that fucking cop. Do you hear me?” 

With each word, Neil pushed Billy’s face into the mattress, wincing inwardly at the sight of his son’ bruised cheekbone scraping against the fabric.

Billy groaned but still gave no response. Neil increased the pressure on his back, making him cry out sharply. 

"Goddammit, Billy! This is for you, not for me! There is no one else, no one, do you understand, who would want you or put up with your crap. Nobody, Billy. Your mother sure didn’t. She left you. Didn’t she! Huh?”

Billy had turned away his face. But he was still not struggling, so Neil released the pressure on his back.

"Say you understand." 

"Screw you." 

Billy's voice was muffled, but Neil had heard well enough. Before he really knew what he was doing, he was recklessly pulling at the arms of his son’s leather jacket, vaguely conscious that he was also tearing at Billy’s hair. He yanked the jacket off and threw it on the floor. Then he undid his belt buckle. 

“You watch your mouth with me, you little shit. I had to raise you by myself. You have no idea what that means. You’ve never had any responsibility in your life. You have no respect. For anybody. But I tell you what, Billy, this ends now.” 

He was about to pull his belt out of its loops when Billy made a sound. 

“Dad, stop, please.” 

“What?” 

“Please. Stop. I didn’t say anything to him. I won’t – I’m sorry.” 

“Then say it.” 

Billy hesitated. 

“I'm sorry. I won’t tell the Chief.” 

“Won’t tell him about what, Billy?”

Another hesitation. 

“Nothing.”

Neil let go off Billy and let him sit up. He himself stood, fastidiously refastened his belt buckle, then bent forward and held his aching knees. Finally, he turned towards Billy, who was sitting on the bed, his arms wrapped around his torso, his whole body curled inward. 

“Where are your keys?”

“What?” 

“Your car keys. Where are they.”

“Dad, no, not that, I promise —"

“Shut up. Give me the keys. Now.”

Neil held out his right hand. Billy slowly leant back to reach into his jeans pocket and pulled out his keys. They felt cold in Neil's hot palm. His son’s face looked raw and Neil could tell that he was trying hard not to cry. 

“Go to sleep. I’ll wake you in a few hours.” 

He turned and closed the door. If there was any sound from Billy’s room, he couldn’t make it out.


	11. Happy Valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. Nobody slept very well. Billy gets dressed and Neil revisits the drawer in the nightstand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I’m back. Guess you didn’t see that one coming! I had terrible, debilitating writer’s block. Thanks for all your encouragement to keep going! It really meant the world to me! If you’re still here, drop me line to let me know what you think. Finishing this chapter is a great personal triumph over my own demons and it would be so great to hear from you! ;) 
> 
> Warnings for marital rape and misogyny; for mentions of domestic violence and child abuse. Also contains discussion of war-related PTSD. 
> 
> EXTRA STUFF FOR YOUR READING EXPERIENCE 
> 
> OK, so I’ve built some kind of timeline for our beloved (not!) main character. I wanted Neil to have been young when Billy was born & I also wanted him to have served in Vietnam at the height of the conflict. 
> 
> TIMELINE
> 
> 1967: Billy is born. Neil is 21 (born 1946)
> 
> 1970: Neil’s number is called in the Vietnam War. (Lottery affected men born between 1944 and 1950). He is 24. Billy is 3. 
> 
> 1984: Hargrove-Mayfields move to Hawkins. Billy is 17; Neil is 38. 
> 
> Finally, the story now has a Spotify playlist you may listen to. The songs are not all from the 80s — they are ones I associate with Billy, Neil, various moments in their lives, and writing the story. 
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2xdGwGMI4jBcb2hNSKzEVX?si=sh8Cb1USS7awPFiZCz6flw

“I said: Who’s there?” 

The sound of the familiar voice woke Neil with a start. It was so loud it felt like it was coming from inside his own head. Muscle memory urged him to get out of bed. When he had been younger, his son had often called out like this in his sleep, afraid of monsters, bad men, and other nonsense. When Neil’d arrived in his room, tired from a long shift, Billy’s small, strong hands had clung to his shoulders as is to a life raft. 

“Billy! Listen to me. There’s nothing out there. What are you, a little girl? We talked about this!” 

“Neil?”

He rolled over to find Susan looking at him with concern. She must have followed him to bed after he had passed out from exhaustion earlier. He had no idea how long he had been out or what time it was.

“Huh?”

“You were shouting in your sleep. Did you have another bad dream?” 

Disoriented, he dragged a hand over his face. His fingers felt numb when they made contact with the stubble of his beard, the puffy, sore skin underneath his eyes. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” 

Before she could explain, he remembered: the nightmare he’d had. Always the same old shit. And here he’d thought he was finally over all that. What the hell was wrong with him? 

He jumped as something grazed his arm, but it was only Susan. Her mouth opened, then closed again as she contemplated him. Finally, she said: 

“Did you see that article in the paper last week, about that new Vet Center in Indianapolis?”

He looked up sharply. 

“What does that have to do with me?”

She hesitated.

“I just mean if you’re having those nightmares again, darling. Maybe we could — ”

“No.” 

“But why not —” 

“Because I said so.”

She looked at him uncertainly. He hadn’t noticed it until now, but his heart was hammering in his chest, making him feel clammy and dizzy. He was probably still tired from searching for the goddamn kids all over town last night. 

“Love, please, why not try it? You’ve been so — distracted. And I know you want the best for Billy, but, sometimes —”

Her sitting so closely to him suddenly seemed intolerable. He pulled away and there was an awkward silence. When he finally spoke, his usually melodic, slightly meandering voice had turned sharp and unpleasant.

“Let me ask you this, Susan. Has Billy ever been your responsibility?” 

There was a moment’s hesitation.

“No, but Neil —”

“And did you serve in a war?” 

This time, she just shook her head. 

“Then, if you want to be helpful, why not stick to things a woman can actually understand. Hm? Learn to make a meal that tastes good. Finish unpacking this damn house for us. Satisfy your husband’s needs once in a while.” 

Her face was a mask of unhappiness, but he didn’t care. That’s what she got for not shutting up with her psychobabble. Why would he want to dig all that up again? He’d spent years trying to forget it. 

The time on the alarm clock indicated it was getting late. He stood abruptly and grabbed a shirt from a nearby chair. She tried to reach for him, but he flinched away. He needed to wake Billy. They had to be at the police station by 9:00.

—

The coffee maker was percolating on the counter and Susan had breakfast ready by the time he stepped into the kitchen. Maxine was sitting at the dining table, reading a comic book and slurping her way through a bowl of cereal. He swore she had worse table manners than Billy. 

Speaking of. 

“Where’s your brother, Maxine?” 

She didn’t look up when he pulled up his usual chair, just turned over the next page in her comic. Neil raised his eyebrows, but reminded himself that Susan was within hearing distance. 

“Did nobody teach you to respond when an adult asks you a question?”

She slowly dragged her pale, disapproving eyes away from Wonder Woman. Then she said, 

“Billy’s still in the bathroom. I don’t think he’s feeling well, Neil.” 

An eloquent silence hung over the kitchen, during which he could feel Susan’s eyes on him. 

—

There was no answer when Neil knocked on Billy’s door. All he could hear were the faint sounds from a radio or tape cassette player that Maxine had left on down the hall, wasting electricity again. He turned the door handle and stepped inside. 

The room was bright and warm, the morning sun filtering through the red patterned fabric hanging over the window. Billy was nowhere to be seen.

Clutter covered every surface. Neil’s eyes came to rest on the nightstand, where a phone, an ashtray, and various other things competed for space. His fingers automatically picked up what was there, checking some things more closely. Then he returned his attention to the drawer. He had almost forgotten about it until now. 

The first thing he felt was an ankle cord that had belonged with Billy’s surfboard. Trash. He discarded it on the floor. Then he resumed his search.

Well, well, well. It was still there. Billy hadn’t even tried to hide it. 

Last year, Susan had bought new watches as Christmas gifts for the kids. She often got them similar things: wanted to treat them both the same. It was fine by him. Max’s watch was a garish yellow and Billy’s was digital and square. Feeling its shape and weight earlier, Neil had immediately known that the watch in the drawer was not the one Billy had gotten from Susan. 

Sighing heavily, he extracted it. Then, holding it in his fingers, he sat down on Billy’s bed. He listened to his neighbor mow the lawn, and to Susan and her daughter talk in the kitchen. To the toilet flushing distantly in the bathroom. Billy. 

He was going to have to deal with this theft problem. Right now. If he didn’t, Billy would end up in prison, sooner or later. Perhaps sooner, after what he did last night. Beating someone unconscious, landing them in hospital, for whatever reason, was assault. And Billy was old enough to be tried as an adult. 

The idea of his son in prison was unbearable. 

He was only seventeen. Still a teenager.

(But what if Billy had beaten that other kid to death? What then?) 

Hargrove men needed a strong hand. And Neil had failed. Failed to protect Billy from himself. 

If he had been man enough to keep his son in line like his own father had done, they wouldn’t be going to the police station now. All those times he’d let Billy get away with something, when he’d felt too tired or too numb to care. Had said: “Go to bed” and locked him in his room. Turned on the TV and drowned out his worries for the evening. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.” Or the next time. Or never. 

He should have sat Billy down for a talk and dealt with his issues each time there had still been an opportunity. 

Given him that beating every single time he’d needed it.

But would it really have made a difference? Even when he’d whipped Billy’s ass, he’d never learnt. 

Staring at the watch in his hand with a rising sense of dread, he speculated where it had come from —

A rich kid’s gym bag?

Somebody’s parents’ bedroom? 

A store display in town? 

He squinted more carefully at its red and blue bezel and the black dial, realizing that he already knew the answer. 

It was his. 

—

It had been years since he’d last seen it, but he recognized it by the damaged hour mark “8.” 

His ex-father in law had given it to him. Gary had been a great guy. Former Air Force pilot with a gruff sense of humor. He and his daughter hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but he had approved of her choice in Neil. Thought he was a good husband and a good father. And apparently a halfway decent pitcher, too. They’d gone to Padres games together, and for beers. “He likes you better than me, Neil,” she’d sometimes said, and he’d been secretly pleased.

When Neil’s number had been called and it was time to leave, Gary had come to see him off. At the gate, he had taken off his pilot’s wristwatch and put it into Neil’s hand, gently closing his son-in-law’s fingers around it. There’d been no need to say anything. On the flight to Da Nang, when nobody was watching, Neil had tried the watch on, gotten used to its feel, to feeling protected by its reassuring weight. Together, they had been through hell and back.

The watch had needed some patching up after, and never ran quite the same again, always losing a few seconds here and then. He had still worn it every day and had sometimes allowed Billy to play with it: his son had wanted to know what the different hands did, asked to press the buttons, rotate the bezel and listen to the clicking sounds it made. Watching him inspect the watch with reverence, Neil had even thought then that, when Billy was grown, he would give it to him. His own father hadn’t given him a single thing.

It had been a nice thought. 

—

The morning after that last, terrible fight with his wife, Neil had woken up to find the watch gone from his bedside table. Disoriented, he had stumbled into the kitchen to look for it. The floor had been covered in plate shards; he’d found some still buried in his hands. When pouring milk into a bowl of cereal for Billy, he had stepped on a button that she had ripped off his shirt.

“Get off me, you fucker!”

“Neil. Stop. Please!”

She’d never been a cryer. But she’d quietly sobbed into her hand that night. Hiding her face from him. 

He’d just left her there. Wiped himself clean with his shirt. Gone to bed.

That evening, after he’d cleaned up the mess and sent Billy to bed early, he’d sat at the kitchen table with an untouched can of beer. Red-eyed, staring at the wall.

She was gone. For good, this time. And another horrifying possibility had occurred to him:

She might pawn his watch for some quick cash to get out of town. 

But what if she’d return it to her old man instead?

—

The door to the room squeaked as Billy returned from the shower. Neil’s fingers closed protectively around the watch. But Billy had already seen it.

He was wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a white undershirt, and his blonde hair was damp and curly from the shower. But his eyes looked bruised and exhausted, and his cheek was covered in parallel, red streaks from when Neil had repeatedly slapped him. 

Neil brushed the memory of his ex-wife away. Then he got up from the bed. 

“Where the hell did you get this.” 

It came out as a low growl. His son’s expression grew wary. 

“What?”

“The watch, Billy.”

Billy frowned.

“It’s mine.” 

Neil sighed impatiently. Stealing from him had been a bad choice. Lying to him about it would only make things worse.

“Yours.” 

Billy looked confused.

“Yeah. Mom gave it to me.”

Neil gave a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head slowly and rubbing a finger over his eyebrow. 

“Your mother. That’s a good one! When was this? Hm? She come by to see you after all those years?” 

There was no response, but Neil could tell he had touched a nerve.

“I said: when was this?”

Billy flinched at the tone, but something in his expression had hardened.

“Jesus, dad. It was the night she left, OK? After you. Argued. She came into my room, and said grandpa’d want me to have it when I was older.” 

Neil contemplated this. He’d never been sure if Billy remembered that night at all. When he looked up again, Billy was looking straight at him, a dead expression in his eyes.

(“Leave her alone!”)

Shit. 

How long had he been there? What had and hadn’t he seen? Or heard? 

Neil felt indignation rise in his chest. This wasn’t fair. Not only had the bitch cheated on him, she had also turned his own kid against him. As if breaking his heart hadn’t been enough. 

“So let me get this straight, son. This watch, the watch that I had with me in ‘Nam, MY watch, was with you? All this time? Where did you even hide it?” 

“I — it wasn’t like that, dad!” 

“Don’t LIE to me! 

Neil turned his back to him in frustration. He needed to calm down. Finally, he said, in a bitter tone,

“You know, Billy, I was going to give this to you for your 18th birthday. But you don’t deserve it. I’ll probably give it to Darren instead.”

Billy looked distraught. It was, admittedly, a low blow. Neil knew how much Billy hated his cousin. Had had to pull him off Darren once or twice when they were younger. To be honest, Neil couldn’t stand that damn kid, either. His sister spoilt all of her children. There was no way in hell he would actually give his watch to that brat or any of his other nephews. But Billy didn’t need to know this. 

Neil bent down and scooped up his son’s leather jacket from the floor. It was heavy, probably because it had spare change, cigarettes, and Billy’s Zippo lighter inside. The collar felt soft and worn between his fingers. One of the cuffs were still stained from Billy’s nosebleed.

“Wash this out. And wear a decent shirt today.” 

“You can’t fucking do that to me!”

Billy looked furious. Surprised, Neil stopped what he was doing, the jacket hanging limply from his hand. Eying his son incredulously, he said: 

“Billy, don’t make me tell you again: This watch was a gift from your grandfather. To me. I’ll do with it what I want. And you already have a watch: the one that Susan gave you last year. Show some gratitude.”

Billy looked mutinous, like he wanted to say something in reply, but didn’t. Neil tossed his jacket on the bed and turned to leave the room. Suddenly, Billy’s voice exploded from somewhere nearby: 

“This is so FUCKING unfair! Mom wanted me to have this, dad! It belonged to Grandpa, not you! And tell Susan she can take her stupid, ugly watch and – ”

Now Neil had really had enough. With three rapid steps, he was in Billy’s face, his hand wrapped in the front of his son’s undershirt. 

“What did just you say to me?”

Billy looked shocked by his own outburst. His eyes shifted nervously away from him, and Neil could feel his heart beat rapidly. Billy had grown so much, gotten so much stronger, and yet some things never changed. 

“I — didn’t mean that.” 

Neil let another few seconds go by. Then, letting go off his son and tucking the watch neatly in his own shirt pocket, he said: 

“You must be out of your fucking mind to speak to me like that. Get dressed. We’ll talk about this later.”

Also of note! 

Neil’s watch is a Rolex GMT-Master, produced from 1959 until 1980, given to him by Billy’s grandfather around 1970. This is the same watch that Magnum PI got from his dad, which, I felt, was appropriate, given that he and Neil share the same hideous mustache & bizarre success with “the ladies.”


End file.
